


The Guilt Of The Wise

by FebobeFic_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Unfinished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29332659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FebobeFic_Archivist/pseuds/FebobeFic_Archivist
Summary: In the aftermath of the Ring's destruction, those who advised the Ringbearer along his way come face to face with Frodo's condition and their own roles in his suffering.  UNFINISHED
Kudos: 4





	1. Comfort

Tell me. . .what words of comfort did you give the halfling before you sent him to his doom? The path that you have set him on can only lead to death.

What words indeed?

So glibly I spoke to Frodo that night in Bag End. Had Aragorn not been in Bree and taken such foresight, all might have been lost. . .and even so, thanks to his trust in me, Frodo was left with a wound that he will carry as long as he lives.

However long that may be.

And yet, knowing that, knowing I had already once condemned him to such danger, did I intervene?

No.

I led him into it, aiding the vines which hopelessly entangled him - which, perhaps, do so even now, if still he lives, which I do believe.

What price the world's salvation?

Is it too high if it comes at the cost of one small person with a very large heart?

\---------

What words indeed?

Words fail me as I gather him into my arms, a filthy bundle of ash-covered rags, bloody skin and bones, tangled curls matted with dirt and wet with perspiration. Sam was clearly breathing, but Frodo. . .

Hastening, I cradle the still body close to my heart, tears stinging my eyes.

And his breath catches.

His breath.

"Aragorn! Aragorn!"

\---------

A catalogue of injuries later, Aragorn steps back, shaking his head.

"Gandalf, he - you realise that he may not - "

"I know."

We say nothing more, for there is nothing more to be said - only work to be done, and plenty of it: a sting at the back of Frodo's neck, and raw open sores from the chafing of the Ring and its chain. . .bruises everywhere. . .whip-weals along his back, legs, and side (and at these, Aragorn's hand tightens to a fist). . .cuts both deep and shallow upon the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands. . .even a missing finger. . . . And to add to all of these, he is painfully thin, his lips dry and cracked to the point of bleeding. These are only the injuries new to us, not those which one or both of us can explain: the scars from the troll's spear, the Witch-King's blade. There has been time enough to see them all, for the necessity of haste has been countered by Frodo's soft whimpers, tiny mewling cries of protest so pitiful to hear that it wrenches the heart. Methodically we have undressed him, removing each article of clothing carefully until our friend lay stripped, covering him with a soft blanket once finished.

"Broth will be too salty," murmurs Aragorn. "It will hurt his lips. Give him water, Gandalf - then we must have a little warm milk, with honey stirred in, not too much - and that in the smallest amounts possible. His wounds, at least, must be cleaned before they can be treated; the rest of him could do with it as well."

We fall to working in silence, Aragorn fetching heated and cooled water and blending the two to produce a suitable bath-mixture, quickly crushing athelas into vessels of hot water and placing them around the head of the bed, where their fragrance will fill the air taken in by Frodo's exhausted body. We take opposite sides of the bed, and I try as I pour a cupful of cool water to avoid noticing that the bath-water swiftly turns reddish-black as Aragorn wrings out his cloth in it.

"Frodo."

Bending over him, I hold the cup to his lips - a tiny feeding-cup, made for some sick child, some small invalid of the citadel - a prince, perhaps, or a steward's son, convalescing from some lengthy illness. Visions of Frodo flash through my head, striking as powefully as an unanticipated blow from behind.

"Gandalf!"

"Ah-ah-ah! Easy now!" But Bilbo laughed, and I could see that he hardly looked angry as Frodo bounced onto his knees, flinging his arms around me - rather, as much of me as he could reach. "Remember, Frodo, plenty of rest. But if you behave and follow orders, perhaps we can bring you into the sitting-room and have supper together there, and stories after, before bedtime."

"Really?" The lad's cry of delight struck me in such an unexpected way: I had met Bilbo's "nephew" before, of course, but had never gotten to spend a great deal of time with him. The little one was like Bilbo - and yet as unlike as could be, a slight figure, too thin, with enormous blue eyes and dark curls, his small body too thin.

"Measles," Bilbo explained grimly as we returned to the kitchen after tucking Frodo in, with some effort required to coax him into yielding for a much-needed (and clearly impending) afternoon nap. "He's been very ill, Gandalf. Almost died. I don't believe I've ever seen such a sick child. The doctor said he needed a great deal of attention during his convalescence - plenty of rest, special foods, peace and quiet - not the sort of things that are easy to get at Brandy Hall, if you take my meaning, if everyone looking after you has other responsibilities, other interests, as they do in this case. So I brought him home to stay at Bag End a few months."

I nodded, sitting to watch as he poured tea for us both, the rich aromas of bubbling mushroom soup and freshly baked gingerbread and strawberry jam-tarts filling the kitchen. "How has he been?"

"The doctor says I'm doing everything all right, but - all the same, it seems there's always something the matter - an ear-ache, or his stomach upset, or he's tired out."

"Perhaps I could sit with him a bit while I'm here - entertain him with a bit of reading and - possibly other things."

Bilbo's tense face lit up. "Could you? He would love that more than anything - he adores you, after all, you know."

Watching Frodo now as I attempted to coax any swallowing effort of him, I sigh.

And I you, lad. I you.

And how have I shown it?

\---------

He sleeps.

Thanks to Aragorn, he sleeps at last, when exhaustion and pain would have robbed him of rest. But the hands of a king are indeed the hands of a healer, and Frodo is quiet, lying securely tucked into bed, surrounded by all the comforts of which he has been deprived these many months: soft pillows and blankets, a warm feather-bed, plenty of fresh water for bathing (and that heated to satisfaction, with cloths and soaps provided), nourishment, and medicines.

And water.

Pure, crystalline water.

I have travelled a great deal, walked the world over in form of man. And yet never had I realised until I went to Sam's side what it must have been like for them.

He was awake, for Aragorn insisted upon coaxing Frodo into healing sleep first, Sam being the stronger and in better condition of the two at present. The distinction was, admittedly, a relative one: both were spent, and one wondered how they had lasted this long.

"Mr. Frodo," he pressed, gasping as I sat beside him, already past the shock of seeing me alive and returned. "Has. . .has he. . ."

Gingerly I touched a spoonful of water to his lips, as Aragorn had instructed. He swallowed the contents greedily, and would almost have bitten the bowl off the spoon in his longing for more. I hastened to give it him, so eagerly did he receive it - and he should have plenty, so long as he could take it without choking or becoming ill, Aragorn had urged. "Your master is safe, Sam. Aragorn tends him."

"Has. . .has he. . .had. . .water?" With difficulty the little gardener managed to get out the words. "He'll be thirsty, but. . .he forgets. He. . .needs water. Not. . .had much. . .of it. . .in a while. . . . Give it. . .it. . .to Mr. Frodo. . . ."

My heart wrenched. "No, Sam. It is fine. We have plenty of water for you both to drink. Aragorn has all that Frodo might wish, I assure you. We have been giving him water, and some warm milk with honey to soothe his throat. But it is still very difficult for him to swallow, and Aragorn is doing all that he can. He wishes you to drink and to rest, and to allow us to care for you both now."

I won, thanks only, I believe, to Sam's exhaustion. With a faint nod, he closed his eyes. "Just tell Mr. . . .tell Mr. Frodo. . .his Sam's. . .right here. . . ." he murmured, falling at once into a weary slumber.

Those little ones, from a land of green and growing things, of ponds and streams and little rivers. . .deprived of water.

And I had known.

I must have realised.

Restraining a sigh, I returned to Aragorn's side and waited.

It is all that this wizard can do now.


	2. Possibilities

Months can seem like years - even to one for whom they are normally mere moments. I had told myself when I sent the Fellowship out from Imladris that I could wait with my usual patience. . .that I would not worry unduly.

I had not considered the weight of the Little One upon my heart.

It was joy indeed that he yet lived, and yet. . .I feared for his condition, recalling what many were like after sore trials. Considering his. . .

Well, I feared for him, to say the least.

Consequently, upon arriving in Minas Tirith I enquired after his condition at once, and was told by Legolas that he had awoken at last from sleep only that very morning, his mind evidently clear, though of course he remained too fragile to be taxed beyond allowing a little time with his cousins and companions. His injuries, however, needed much more attention, and some in particular taxed even Estel's skill: would I, after I had rested, if I did not mind, look at them?

If I did not mind? I was the one who sent this little one into danger; is this much not my duty?

And so I hastened to change from travelling robes, leaving Arwen in the care of her grandmother to dress for Estel, and went at once to where my skills might be of more use: to the room indicated as the Ringbearer's, where I was promptly admitted.

Legolas sat watch by the bed, though he rose and came to me, smiling.

"Thank you. He has been sleeping most of the afternoon, but is awake once more, resting quietly. We have given him medicine and what little broth he would take, but he has been sick. Estel has been writing down everything." He indicated a small note-book on the high table near the bed, glancing at my herbal. "Is there anything you would like brought? Mithrandir finally sent Estel off to sleep, but he would wish everything at your disposal."

"A small tray will suffice - apple juice if you can find some, some warmed milk with honey, and a very small amount of champagne with a few berries in it, if that can be managed."

The prince bowed and nodded. "Of course. I shall send someone up - or return myself - at once."

At the door he paused, turning. "There is one other thing you should know." Lowering his voice, he nodded toward the tiny hobbit in bed, and I listened closely, stepping nearer so that he might speak so quietly as to be inaudible even to hobbit ears.

"Estel has done all he can to make the little one comfortable, but still Frodo suffers greatly from many pains. . .and though the medicines help many of them, he seems quite miserable over his neck, and indeed the wound is grievous enough to be worrisome. If you could help him. . ."

"Of course."

When he had gone, I turned back to the bed, surveying its occupant. This bed was not so large as the one in which we had placed him so many months ago, yet he seemed even smaller in its depths, swaddled in bandages and night-shirt and soft blankets and fluffy pillows.

What had I done?

"Frodo."

He looked up, starting slightly. . .but smiled weakly and put out tiny arms thinned nearly to the bones. My heart ached as I bent over him, slipping my arms beneath to gather him up. I would not have thought he would do so again.

"Lord Elrond. . .you. . .you've come. . . . I didn't think you. . .you'd be. . .here. . . ."

"I am." Leaving the matter of Arwen's wedding for when he was stronger, I sat beside the bed, cradling him close. "Prince Legolas tells me that you are not feeling well. I am glad to see you again. . .and what I can do to ease you, I will."

"Hurts." Shifting uneasily, he emitted a small whimper, snuggling into a little bundle of trembling hobbit against my chest. "My hand's not so bad with the medicine. . . . A-Aragorn gave me some stuff for it earlier. . .but. . .my neck still burns. . . . It's like fire. . . ."

"Let me see, Little One." Easing away the blankets, I folded back the throat of his night-shirt, working gingerly. . .only to discover an angry red and black pattern eaten around the thin neck.

The marks of a chain, cut into the flesh.

Cut deeply into the flesh.

The wound had been cleaned, it seemed, but surrounding redness - and accompanying heat, enjoined by tenderness (evidenced by soft gasps from Frodo as I pressed two fingers lightly against the pink areas nearby) - indicated that infection had, despite Estel's medicines and treatments, already set in. Fortunately, the wound was not closed and festering: a pale straw-coloured drainage seeped from the weeping wound here and there. However, pressure on some of the more swollen areas produced a small amount of dark green pus.

Only one weapon could have made such a wound.

Ai, tithen min, what has it done to you?

Managing a smile, I kept him cradled close. "There is medicine I can give you. We will clean it regularly with special medicines, though I do not think we should dress it yet. A dressing would stick and be more painful, for it would have to be pulled off to change every few hours."

"No. . .no dressing." Frodo whimpered softly, shaking his head.

"No dressing. I promise." Rising, I put him gently back into bed, tucking blankets about him. "I will prepare your medicines now, and will clean the wound."

"Thank you." He lay quietly, watching, as I opened my herbal upon the high table and began to prepare a soothing mixture for his neck, choosing the most mild selections in an effort to avoid further irritating his delicate skin.

"What else troubles you, Frodo? Please tell me - without hesitation. I wish to help you."

"Mostly I ache, and - my throat is still sore. And my - my finger hurts - even though it's not there." Fear shimmered vaguely in his voice; the idea clearly troubled him.

"Such pain is not uncommon. Your body does not understand that your finger is gone. It is possible that you will always need medicines for it." I did not tell him that we would have to ease his mind as well to aid in the battle: a physical pain, yes, but one which could not be effectively managed without treating the accompanying anxiety and melancholy.

Some have died from less than he has endured, or would have.

I attempted to put images of silver hair out of my head. Swallowing, I went to the table at the back of the room to wash my hands in the basin provided, then brought another of the basins and its accompanying pitcher of water to the bedside before retrieving the kettle of water kept heating over the small fire. As Frodo watched, I poured hot water, then added cool and mixed with my hand, and at last gathered the medicines and fresh cloths from the preparation table before sitting beside him.

"How have the others been caring for you?"

"Mostly I have been asleep. But - everyone has been kind." He trembled, stiffening a little as I touched the warm, damp cloth to his neck. "I'm so tired - all the visitors today, and - and - "

"And?" I waited patiently, continuing to bathe his neck with the lightest possible touch.

"Aragorn brought something for me to try." Tears moistened his eyes. "Some. . .some broth, and I wanted it, but. . .I. . .was sick after. Even though I hardly tried any, and I tried very slowly, just as he said."

I cannot. . .please, nin meleth. . .no more. . . .

She would have known what to do.

But I sat speechless, just as I had when Arwen put her little hands in mine and told me of her desire, when I knew that I could make arguments and all would be in vain. . . .

At last I nodded.

"It is. . .like that. . .sometimes. When the stomach has grown unaccustomed to proper food, it is disinclined toward the tolerance of wholesome nourishment. But you must keep trying, for you need nourishing food and drink to aid in your convalescence. They will make you feel better with time. We shall give you something lighter than meat broth and see how that settles on your stomach."

He winced as my fingers brushed the back of his neck. "I. . .I'll try. I'm so thirsty. . .but I don't feel up to drinking."

"We can moisten pieces of sponge and put them to your lips. I would, however, encourage you to try. It is very important."

"All right." Sighing softly, he quieted, though his eyes continued to watch me with curiousity, their gaze trusting.

What had I done to deserve his trust?

I had sent him off to die with only a pack of supplies.

With companions who would fall prey to the Ring's call or to enemy hands.

Into territory held by enemies, where no friends would be found.

Unprepared.

Truly, I had, for no maps or speeches could prepare him, and even at that I had given him little enough in the matter of either. We had trusted that Mithrandir would guide him, yet I knew that even Mithrandir might not be with him at the end.

I had sent him on a hopeless errand.

There was a soft knock at the door. Finishing the medicinal application, I rose - "Come in!" - and removed my supplies to the back of the room, where I washed my hands in a fresh basin, returning to the Ringbearer's bedside as an attendant entered with a small tray, neatly covered.

"If there is anything else, my lord, it has only to be requested - "

"Of course. Thank you." Uncovering the tray as he departed, I took the warm milk and removed it to the preparation table, where I added a handful of peppermint leaves and set the cup over the warming-lamp to heat. "Now, Frodo. . .would you prefer to begin with apple juice or with some champagne?"

"Champagne?" Frodo's eyes widened, and he looked at me quite suspiciously.

"Yes. It is, in small amounts, one of the best medicines for someone recovering from such grave illness."

"Oh!" He looked surprised, but considered a moment. "A sip, perhaps. I could try."

Selecting a medicine-dropper from my herbal, I brought this to the bedside and sat, presenting him with the glass - beautifully arranged, with fresh strawberries and blueberries inside - before half-filling the dropper and offering it for him to try. "A very small amount to start. This will help."

He sipped cautiously, finishing the dropperful without event. . .and smiled a little.

"It's good."

"Yes, it is." I could not help smiling as well. "A little more? Then you should try some apple juice - and we will finish with peppermint milk sweetened just a bit with honey. It will help your stomach and ease your throat - and it should help you to sleep as well."

"Mmm." No further answer than this, for the little one was eager to accept as I held out another dropperful for him, ensuring that he remained amply propped on pillows. (Estel, clearly, had arranged them thus to avoid difficulties with his airway, which remained swollen following the exposure to ash and smoke. Too well I recalled the searing fumes inside Orodruin; it was incomprehensible that this little one had survived at all.)

A few droppers of each, and I strained the milk from the peppermint leaves, bringing it to him in a small feeding-cup and gathering him back into my arms to give this last bit of nourishment. This he nursed eagerly at, if somewhat drowsily: the act of being cradled in warm arms seemed to calm him, and swiftly he settled against me.

So thin.

So thin I could count his ribs through his night-shirt, could almost do so through the blankets.

And yet he nursed steadily as I fed him, taking the milk hungrily.

What if. . .

No. No, it was unthinkable. . .

But then. . .Frodo had done the unthinkable, had he not? The unimaginable?

Yes.

Smiling, I gathered him closer, closing my eyes for a moment to better remember her face.

Nin meleth! Who is this you have brought me?

The choice, of course, would not be mine at the last.

But the gift would be.

This time I would not abandon him to darkness.

"Sleep, Frodo. I will be here when you wake."


	3. Firith

"Like Celebrian."

"Yes." Elrond's voice was thick with grief as he stood beside me, watching Arwen from just outside the Ringbearer's room, where she she fussed and cooed as if Frodo were one of her dolls so many years ago.

Neither of us spoke for some time. Arwen did not notice us; her attention was given over completely to her little one, who lay cradled in her arms, being fed his supper. I felt grateful, for her eyes accused me when they met my face.

Accusations without words, without names, without answers.

"Have you considered?"

"Yes." I watched as Arwen shifted the bundle in her lap, rubbing his back and offering the feeding-cup once more, coaxing in low notes.

"Strange indeed that we should have the same thought." He turned to me, arching one eyebrow quizzically.

"Stranger than you know."

His countenance lost some of its colour as he followed my gaze. "What have you not told me of her?"

Not what, Elrond. How. How could I break your heart again? It was I who had to ride back from Mithlond, the Havens, with you after Celebrian's sailing, and I swallowed the wrenching of my own spirit then to support yours, for the sake of you and for the children, though they were grown, not little ones to be coddled and kept from the truth. It was I who bore witness to Arwen's joy before she dared speak of it to you, and my heart ached for both of you then.

As it does now.

She is my grand-daughter.

And yet. . .it might have been my Celebrian.

Think you not that the thought has never crossed my mind. The tale of Beren and Luthien is, among our people, every girl's dream and every mother's nightmare.

"Daernaneth. . .have you been to Frodo?"

"Of course, Undomiel." Looking up, I found Arwen looking less like a bride and more like the young runabout in the woods of Lothlorien, as she had been when Estel first saw her. "Why do you ask?"

"Estel and Ada still fear for his life." Compassion and fear lit her clear grey eyes as she came to me, reaching for my hands as she did when a small child. "Even if he is spared, he cannot be restored to wholeness. Mithrandir says that is certain, and I - daernaneth, I feel it."

"He is mortal, Arwen. That is the sorrow of mortality." Yet my words tasted as hollow as they sounded in my ears. Evidently Arwen agreed, for she frowned, shaking her head.

"No. For others, it may be. But none have taken such a burden upon themselves."

"No."

Silence. At last she spoke again, her voice soft and plaintive.

"Daernaneth, do you think Ami is better now?"

"We cannot know for certain. . .but I do believe that she is. There is every reason to think so. She hoped that it would be thus."

Her dark hair shifted as she gave a pensive nod. "She went so she could be whole again."

My breath caught. "Yes."

Our eyes met, and I gathered her hands more tightly in mine.

"Do you know what we would ask, Arwen? You can only imagine. . . ."

"But I can."

Her voice was quiet, but bore a resolution I had seldom heard.

She knew.

As did I.

"She spoke to me of him." I allowed this a moment before continuing. "It seems that we were of one mind in the matter."

A long silence.

"And?"

"I do not know that any prayers to the Valar will be heeded from my lips. . .considering. We have asked Mithrandir to do what he can; there must surely be means by which he, too, can plead Frodo's behalf."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Elrond's lips, deep sorrow touching the corners. "I think that they would not listen to me at all, but I have asked nonetheless."

"Arwen's fate is what it is, and she has chosen it as freely as any of choose our love." I laid my hand over his; he did not pull away. Rather, his smile softened, broadening a little, though tears sparkled in his eyes.

"By the time I first turned away from seeing Celebrian, I could not have borne life without her. I would question Arwen more closely in her decision. . .save that I see in her eyes, and in Estel's, what I felt then."

We stood watching in silence as Arwen continued to cradle and feed her beloved charge. It was I who spoke first.

"The bearers of the Three and the One should go together. There is only the matter of when, and the answer to that lies, I think, with you more than Mithrandir or myself."

He nodded. "Not long. Less than a handful of years. I would not tarry so long as that were it not that Frodo wishes to see the Shire again, and I suspect he will need time before he is ready. . .provided our hopes are fulfilled."

A hesitation.

"We must ask whether his kinsman may join him. Bilbo, too, carried the One for a time, and though he does not suffer as Frodo does, I am loath to separate them thus. . .especially now. And if Frodo insists upon waiting. . . ."

We allowed the thought to fall, unspoken, between us like like the leaves which I had already seen fading and falling from the trees in Lorien.


	4. Elrond Speaks Again

So it would be.

Arwen would issue the invitation; she would tell Frodo that he would have the choice to sail West with us when we departed Middle-earth for the West.

She would not, however, say what was needful - which was that Frodo could expect to live but a handful of years longer, that his life would likely be greatly shortened by his ordeal.

Needful.

I scoffed darkly at myself as I stood outside Frodo's room, preparing myself to enter. What did I, of all the Free Peoples, know of what was needful? Had I troubled myself over the matter of the Ring?

So one might say, for I prepared and supplied the Fellowship.

Or so people said.

How adequately had I prepared Frodo?

How much preparation had I, who had stood inside the Sammath Naur, alone amongst all the company to have seen that place firsthand, given to the little Ringbearer?

I had spoken little enough of it to him.

And yet...what could I have said of that place? The heat? The roiling lava? The overwhelming dark and light of shadow and flame, like a living balrog surrounding whomever stood there? The oppressiveness of the smoky atmosphere, choking one's breath away with charred ash and smoky heat, the fumes of sulphur and soot?

Perhaps I was afraid.

Afraid of what he might ask me.

Afraid of what I had asked myself every day since his arrival, when he lay pale and cold and still beneath hands, until I prodded gingerly at his wound and caused him to cry out, struggling in pain and fear, fever and chill wracking his tiny body.

Isildur...

We would have perished together, he and I, most likely, for there would have been no eagles' rescue, no Mithrandir to fetch us.

Yet would it not have been better thus? Better for Isildur, better for Middle-earth, better most of all for the little one who lay now suffering in his bed, starved, parched, bitten, beaten, and battered, half-suffocated?

Why did I not, my friend, push you in?

Pushing open the door with a deep inhalation of breath, I made my way to Frodo's bedside on soundless feet, seating myself quietly at his side as I laid a hand across his thin cheekbone.

Still too warm, as if fever still smoldered within his fragile frame.

And so thin...so painfully thin. "Not right at all for a hobbit," as Sam had tearfully explained to us.

No...not right at all.

I thought that I had better try to feed him before sharing such news. Hobbits prefer their bad news on a full stomach...a wise enough decision, I had concluded over the years. And Frodo could ill afford to miss a mouthful of nourishment. He needed the most soothing, comforting, calming food we could provide, and I did not regret my decision to have something suitable prepared before coming up to see him.

"Frodo."

Soft blue eyes opened, gazing up at me. "Is it...what time...is it?"

"Nearly time for supper. How do you feel?"

"Tired...very tired. But...hungry too." He mustered a small smile. "I had a nice lunch. Arwen brought soup for me. Vegetables and chicken all cut up into little bits in a nice broth. And mashed potatoes with carrots."

I could not resist a smile despite my own concerns about him. "Arwen adores you."

"And I her." He blinked drowsily. "I had a frighful dream, all about - about there, and there were orcs, and giant spiders, and - and - Gollum, and worst of all was the Eye...but then she came and made it all better; she woke me and talked to me for a long time."

"What did you two talk about? If I may ask." Half of me wanted him to say Arwen had told him, had gotten it over with after all, that he knew.

"Mushrooms."

Ah.

"Mushrooms and potatoes...and applesauce too. And she wanted me to help her plan what I want at the feast we shall have when I am better." He smiled, and I thought I saw a flicker of light dance through the hollow eyes. "She promised I could sit by her."

"I look forward to that day, Frodo."

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of the tray I had requested, and I rose to take it from Legolas, who handed it in with eyes full of sorrow. He had seen Frodo since their return. He knew what I had to say to the little one, even without being told.

The tray was, as I had instructed, filled with miniature dishes and feeding-cups - as one might use for a small child, so as not to overwhelm Frodo with too much of any one thing. But now that he could eat in a manner and amount a little more suitable to a hobbit, we wanted to encourage him, and so there were more than half a dozen items for his enjoyment.

Sweet Eru, it was the least we could do, to provide him with something pleasant and healthful now. Too little, too late.

"Shall we see what we have for you this time?"

He nodded, allowing me to prop him on pillows and arrange the tray before him, lifting covers to reveal an array of soft and liquid foods: blueberry custard...turkey soup with rice...creamy mushroom soup...scrambled eggs in potato nests...rice-pudding with dried cherries...shirred eggs with mushrooms...a little dish of strawberry ice-cream...peaches with strawberries and sweet white wine...a feeding-cup of milk-punch.

His eyes lit up, much to my relief, and quietly he allowed me to feed him, helping him nurse at the cupfuls of liquid, touching small half-spoonfuls of custard and pudding, egg and potato and mushroom and ice-cream and fruit in wine to his lips. It took what seemed, no doubt, a great deal longer than it really was, and yet all too soon I was sending back the finished tray and bracing myself for what must inevitably come.

"I will die."

Blinking, startled, I turned. Frodo was looking at me, clear-eyed and calm, but I could hear a note of anxiety in his voice. "What makes you say such things, tithen min?" I ventured at last.

"I know it. I don't know how, but I know it. It's different than any other time I've been ill. I don't feel I have a great deal of time left...oh, it isn't today, or tomorrow, I'm sure, or even next week or next month." He hesitated. "But I shan't live to see sixty...shall I?"

I crossed back to the bed and cradled his injured hand in my palm, so large as it closed around tiny fingers and stub, around the scars and bandages. "Nay, Frodo. I fear that you shall not."

"Then..." He drew a shuddery breath. "I should like to see Bilbo, if I am well enough to travel before then. I should like to see him once more...and...perhaps the Shire too; I must think on it."

"I think you will be well enough to see what your heart most desires to see before you depart this world." There, no lies. "Would you permit us to give you what succour we can provide, when the time comes...and until then?"

He nodded firmly. "Yes, please."

"Then rest, and know that you shall have all the comfort that it is possible for us to give." I raised my other hand to stroke his dark curls. "Rest, Frodo. I shall not abandon you...nor shall my family."

-to be continued-

UNFINISHED


End file.
